Another wasted weekend. I never realized how limiting the cold is until now. Ah well. I guess I'll just have another reason to anxiously await spring.

I wrote a suicide note today in the form of the last first half chapter of my book today. Guilt and responsibility does wonders to one's will to live. But the kindness and concern of others, the fact that people do need me, and my low tolerance to pain aborted the attempt. Last night, as you may have noticed, was not fun. I went to bed and actually cried before I fell asleep. I don't know how to fix my father's problems. I want to forget about them, but I feel some familial responsibility to him to try and help. However, there are too many walls to make it easy. I don't know. Maybe in ten years I could, but not now. He's been like this since Carrie was born I dare to say, so I don't know what else could help but a therapist. All the lonely, miserable people in this world... It's enough to inspire a guy to want to change it. Well, enough to inspire a guy to want to write about it to point it out. Who knows? Not me.

Hah, I'm already repressing it! I try to remember it, think on it in detail, and I get nauseous! Isn't that great?

Why is it that the police seem to arrive after the highest point of action? They did tonight!

Anger and Guilt (My Father)

I can't take it. My hands are quivering, I've almsot burst into tears, my poor sister is going through hell, and I just want to rush in and save her. But I can't. He's drunk. He won't listen to reason. He's dead set on this. He always is. But he was doing so well! He hadn't had an outburst like this in a relatively long time! He's the reason I've so afflicted by guilt. He's the reason my sister gets so angry. I can't even type this, it's like a panic attack that I have when I perform. Ugh. Kafka, I empathize.

And it all went to Hell in a Handbasket.

Today was a bad day admidst an already disappointing and depressing semester. To start off the day I got a 33/52 on a quiz in Calculus. It's catastrophic, really, because we already get very few points in that class. So now I've got to be nigh on perfect until spring break if I want an A. That means I have to study. I can't just know the material, I actually have to really, really know the material. I can't make stupid mistakes. I am going to be really stressed.

Then in Humanities I argued the side of The Daily Show for 45 minutes against mostly haters. Fortunately David Duncan and to a lesser extent Zaq were on my side, but it wasn't easy. I didn't even get to say that I'm often inspired by some of the people that come on. It wasn't that upsetting though. What was was talking to Mr. Ross for thirty minutes afterwards. I see a whole lot of startling similarities between us, so I thought it might be wise to hear his opinions on life, existentialism, etc. and see how he handles them. Essentially, I think I could very well turn into him if I don't find someone I really love that bolsters me as much I hope to bolster them. Mr. Ross committed the cardinal sin of doing what others wanted from you instead of doing what you yourself want, and it's plagued him to this day. He too has the bipolar dark and light (like my high and low) scenario that routinely afflicts him. He also refuses to take medicine for it (as the medicine seemed to create a steady stream of apathy similiar to the kind Sugue mentioned loathing). He's learned to accept the dark, and I'm afraid I will too. However I don't feel his sense of responsibility, so my hold on this existence is tenuous at best. And nothing's really going to change that until I get out of college and begin my actual career. Love admittedly helps, but love is an illogical, imperfect device that can hurt as much as help. I do so want it to help though. Time, space, and walls... I need some dynamite.

Anyway, what upsets me about talking to Mr. Ross is that I'm afraid he'll have higher expectations for me. I hate expectations. That's why I always fail at entertainment, because expectations are high. I need them to be low. That in turn causes me to have a sense of worthlessness and low self-esteem, but the alleviation of stress is worth the tradeoff. I hate disappointment. I just want to apologize for everyone and get forgiveness, because I really don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to work things out. But things have a nasty habit of falling apart instead of working out. So, on my list of things I need are glue, more studying, perfection, love, low expectations, and dynamite. I am a mess of a person, aren't I?

Do you know why nostalgia is bittersweet? There's no hope attached. Memories are moments that are over, complete, finished. Most will never be repeated. None will be repeated in the same way. You yearn for them, you want them again, but there is no possible way they'll be realized. We need hope. I need hope. Not delusion, but hope. I need it immediately, not 5 or 10 years from now. I'll have to find some. But where to look...

Genius!

Lepers: The Musical. Think about it.

Feel my Pain

http://www.drugs-db.com/drugs/c/claravis.htm

Remind me not to get pregnant anytime soon.

Metamorphosis a la FANBULOUS

Here's the plan: It's a satire. Guy (or girl) goes to bed and the very next morning wakes up gay (like Gergor Samsa waking up as a beetle; they can decide to be gay or have it magically thrust upon them, since apparently one can be "turned"). Their family isolates them and then they kill themselves. It's genius! (Not for me though, one of you write it.)

Notes

1. The Big Lebowski was disappointing in its comic qualities. I'd heard so much, but it was rather lacking. Maybe that's because I'd heard so much. I dunno. I did like the "common man" amidst all this crazy philosophy and confusion of the "big rollers" who didn't bowl at all. But that's just me.

2. Firefox should be the browser choice of everyone. Talking to Elizabeth, I think I've figured out that it is so good because it runs off of the hopes and dreams of America's youth. That's why they're all cynical, disillusioned, and materialistic. Hey, it's free. If you can't beat em... then you're not into S&M.

I hate depression. The only way I can think to help alleviate it is to say a blanket "I'm sorry."

So... I'm sorry. Thank you.

Son of Mann

Well, I watched "The Terminal" tonight and, as usual, it got me thinking. Fortunately on more positive thoughts than last Friday (although the existentialist aspect was quite prevalent, what with the alienation and confusion; the end result would have been much more inspiring if it didn't seem like the characters who befriended the main weren't so... nice. It was almost illogical, so it wasn't as believable. Anyway...). I, once again, was moved because, as I've mentioned before, I am really a little girl. Or emphatic. Or both.

Anyway, once again I was stirred by the desire to make something moving, and, overlooking my novel, I found it insufficient a device. To create beauty, something powerful that "tugs on one's heartstrings", I think you need a vision. A complete vision, a larger vision. I deal with details. I read word by word, not paragraph by paragraph. I don't see a painting all at once, I have to focus. And the focusing takes away from the effect. I think. I don't know. Maybe it's a justification of my poor writing or lackluster ideas. The execution, perhaps. As usual, your guess is as good as mine.

But I've decided it's ok for this effort not to be spectacular. I have a plan. Instead of a singular novel, I want to create a trilogy. "Dear sweet mother of inservice days, why is he taking on MORE work!?" you cry. Well, it's not immediate. I want to write this novel when I'm 18, fresh out of adolescence with little perspective, lots of uncertainty, and quite a bit of stress. I want to see how I progress. The next milestone in one's life seems to be 40. At 40 you're "over the hill" which, oddly, just occurred to me tonight that "over the hill" refers to one's life expectancy. At 40, half of your life is through. You're coasting downhill from this point forward. That's why it's so depressing. So 40 will be a good age. Then I want to write my last novel at 80. If I live that long, and judging by current habits of self preservation, I'll be lucky to make it to 40. We'll see. If I make it to 80, I want to write the third in the trilogy. The first about Avery Mann. The second about his son. The third about his son. Ironic, because at that point I may have grandchildren of my own. It's an impossible distance and an idea that I'm likely to forget in a month. 22 years til the next installment? It sounds impossible. Here's to a dream, though. No matter the result, it's an effort worth undertaking. Think of the result. Even if just one of my descendants reads them... my legacy, perhaps. One I find perfectly suitable. You'll have to remind me at our high school reunion years from now.

I'm crazy. But a harmless crazy. For now... check back with me after half my life's over and we'll see. Until then... Cheers!

Two notes

1. I hit it to make it work. The computer wouldn't start, so I hit the blasted thing and it worked as well (or poorly) as it normally does. Makes ya think. No, Elizabeth, I know what YOU'RE thinking, and you really ought to stop.

2. I hope Mr. Ross has a sense of humor. I wrote, more or less, a note on the card we went to the Ross's since Mr. Ross's mom broke her hip: "Ms. Ross, I sincerely hope you get better. Mr. Ross come back soon, existentialism is meaningless without you." It's better than David's "Come back Mr. Ross, I'm tired of doing work!" Or David Duncan's pun, referring to the perky insect he wrote under inside the card "BEE sure to get well soon." Some people.

Just for Caitlin

Big props to the Student Council on a quick effort to get money to the Tsunami victims. Hopefully more, better publicized efforts will follow, but it's a cause I really support. I look at 9/11 and people with terminal illnesses and think that there are larger pictures that should be addressed instead of the individuals. But the tsunami was on such a scale that it deserves as much attention as it can get. We were shocked, awed, and massively changed by around three thousand deaths in a terrorist attack. This is at least 50 times 9/11 in its death toll alone, not to mention the widespread devastation. It fills my heart with a literal surge of joy (strangest feeling) when I read of people donating, especially countries giving a really significant amount (although given the total we've supplied to Iraq, our tsunami relief seems lacking). At any rate, good job Student Council. I deride your dances and lack of any real meaningful power in the school, but this sort of thing is what the group ought to be about. More people should follow its example. A Cardboard tournament for Tsunami victims? You never know...

And... I was right. It passed. The infrequent, yet persistent existential crisis is averted, for now. Return to your regularly scheduled... whatever!

Existential Desire

I am a singular disaster of humanity. This will be one of those typical Saturday rants combining lunacy, angst, self-pity, anger, hopelessness, and an everpervasive sense of defeated resignation that maybe one person reads because everyone else is either too disgusted, embarassed, bored, or just plain apathetic to care. And that's quite fine. Because, at the moment, everything just seems downright pitiful. You see, the existential beast has once again reared its emaciated frame to declare itself king of the heap of bones that is myself. But, as always, it is just "at the moment." For it's all words and temporary emotions, the past nothing but things to yearn for and avoid, the future something to fear or look at with stupidity. What has prompted this arrousal of what, by most signs, had been sleeping for quite some time? I'm not really sure. I'm just angry. I've let my blasted guard down, let that fool of a romantic take control of the council that supposedly resides in my twisted head and now it's lead me on some fool errand's where it actually convinced me I was content. I may even have had hope. Of course, the existentialist is laughing that cruel, mocking laugh he generally does when the romantic sticks his hand in the garbage disposal that is existence trying to find some gem of purpose only to shredded. Oh, it's clear now. My path, what I really "ought to do" with the rest of my pitiful life, is to find some boring, mundane job and die alone in obscurity. For that would be the honest way. I wouldn't be tempted to fool myself then. I would forgive all trespasses, try to be a generally pleasant person, but turn into that introvert who was always "such a nice boy" whenever the cops interview the others in his appartment after a murder/suicide. Actually, I don't think there'd be any murder. That might be too much of a justification.

Now, one might think at this very moment I'm depressed and miserable. Actually, I've only got mild anxiety and anger. It's dull anger, though, so I'm not shaking. Oh, speaking of shaking, that's what my father was referring to, without his knowledge, when I arrived home tonight. Me, angry at existence and myself over matters as important as anything in the coloring book of Fate, and he has the gall to tell me he's failed me as a father. I can only assume he'd been drinking, because he only lets his self-pity show whenever he loses control. As you might be able to tell, that is not a genetic problem as I generally let it show whenever I feel like it. At any rate, this time he hasn't paid enough attention to me and my oboe. Apparently my (I'm so tempted to start dropping f-bombs, but because it's one of the last refuges of pointless control I senselessly force upon myself, I'll refrain and let the stress/frustration build more) attacks of bodily convulsions and inability to read whenever I tryout for grades could have been lessened or prevented if he'd held my hand or something ridiculous like that. No, dear papa, my problem is that despite my frequent attempts to convince myself that I am above accomplishment, this was my one chance to justify all the thousands of dollars you squandered on oboe lessons. And the pressure was too great and in typical fashion I overcame that wonderful drug that worked so well and I blew the entire thing. Oh yes, it was quite abysmal. In fact, I'm almost certain it's a contributing factor to this rant. I didn't want it to same I'm decent or anything. I wanted it to justify wasting money. I wouldn't care if it was my money, my effort that was thrown away, but whenever it's other people's I feel as if I have responsibilities and obligations I simply didn't uphold. It just occurred to me that some of you may not have known I was trying out for Sr. Clinic, although since "there is no try" it may be more apt to say "I did not Sr. Clinic."

And then I'm spurred to figure out exactly what I want out of this trash heap. What do I want? Everything that pops into my mind I'm once again aware is only temporary. Every single blasted thing. (Oh, almost a curse word! Aren't I risque?) I could love, but that would fade. I could write the "Great American Novel" as my feeble attempt at creation has been so derisively called, but that will be a flop, a confusing jumble of well-intended sentiments that gets a "I liked the message, but the execution ruined the idea." I'll have to put that on the cover... I could become a great actor, but that's right... not only do I have no talent for entertainment, I also lack the ability to perform under any sort of expectations or strain. I could be that math teacher, but to what purpose? At the moment I don't want to be bothered. I'm tired. I don't really want anything except peace, being responsible for only myself, the ability to fade into the background, and to die. Oh, it's not some suicidal wish, it's simply the desire to stop delaying the inevitable because the inevitable bothers you so much. This is the anxiety, the strain, the weight that hangs above oneself when you have an assignment to do and you keep procrastinating on it. I have a life to end and I'm sitting here wasting time on the computer. It's good for all sorts of procrastination, you know.

Have no fear, dear reader, if you actually do exist and I'm not ranting to myself (for I believe in your position this would be something that would be rather difficult to read. So... I'm sorry?). This is only a mood. For I am a man of moods. Aren't we all? Why should my wayward emotions be any different from yours? I suppose some of you get upset over petty things that lead to lesser levels of anxiety and frustration. Then, perhaps, you look at me, whining about a lack of direction and purpose. "'Everything's going to fade, we're all going to die eventually, boohoohoo.' Geez. For crying out loud, get over it. I've got more important things to worry about. You don't know my pain. Get over it." I don't know your pain, that's quite right.

I don't know anything. I preach, I advise, I try to aid, but on what ground do I stand that I would be in such a position to render such a service? Am I a hypocrite? Oh, surely, in many areas not brought to my attention. But not in my advice. No, I think I am just a failure. What have I failed? I've failed to find a purpose. I've failed to maintain the illusion. I let myself go. I let my self-control, my rigid repression ease, lessen, rot and I forgot to keep it in moderation. Or did I? What have I done that is so very extreme? In fact, I still won't curse. Even in the foulest of moods, I won't let myself write four letters and press "send." I forgot. I always forget. Every lesson. Every rule. Every guideline to mental success and the route to becoming the type of person I ideally would like to be. Then I remember and think "I knew this, I've been over this before." And a week, a day, an hour later it's gone. Just like emotion. Words. It's all grains of sand, swirled in the wind then deposited into some dune we call a psyche. The wind blows, our mind changes, our perspective is altered, and we dance the dance again. Which will it be next? The Puritan? The introvert? The Romantic? The failed dreamer? The depressed teenager? Can this all be dismissed as childish rantings? When does it become "unacceptable"? When do I "have to grow up"? Or maybe I'm already too grown up. Maybe I'm thinking of things no one should even consider. Maybe I'm thinking and that's the problem. Oh yes, remember that one? Thinking is what causes all my problems? Everything seems to be a cause and cure for all my problems.

And now, you'll finish reading this (if you actually read the whole thing) and say some irreverent quip or one lined response that is supposed to alleviate it all. Or you'll remain silent. Like most of the time. I respond. I try to add my own input. But I'm wrong, confound it. I'm wrong. Someone say something that's close to right. Someone respond with something of some use. Or don't. Because in a day, an hour, a few minutes it'll fade. And I'll look at this and think "Well, isn't this pointless and embarassing. I ought to delete it." But I leave it up. A testament to a moment. Perhaps I think it will last, on some level, however wrong that may be. Did you notice that? I just threw you some symbolism. Maybe we're all symbolic of something. God's writing a book. Am I the main character? Are you? Does it matter? I remember Rosencrantz said something like "I remember a time when there were no questions." I do too. Was I happy then? I can't remember. I'm not sure anyone can.

Asking for a Little Respect

Ah, that Otis Redding. You kids can have your dang punk music. I've got oldies! I guess that's apt. I was born old, I'm living old, and I'll die, guess how, old. For some reason I can't relax and let things flow. I'm impatient, I want control and for things to happen when I want them. It's easier when you know that's impossible, you can resign yourself to waiting. But when there seems to be a possibility of immediate results, not obtaining them makes me anxious and uncomfortable. My mother blames TV and the internet, since we're so accustomed to instant "gratification." I dunno. I guess I just need to slow down my thoughts and desires. Let the current carry me instead of worrying "What's Around the Riverbend." Dear fake lord, I just quoted Pochahontas. It's time for bed. Cheers!

Hmph.

I watched Garden State today. For some reason, most movies, especially those that aren't simplistic action/romance, seem to start me thinking. I dunno. For instance, with Garden State I initially hated it. I guess because it was existentialistic in the "nothing matters, my life is despair and empty hedonism." Then, as the movie progressed, it took on a Romantic twinge that seemed more superficial than anything else. The movie itself wasn't too bad after I got used to it, but a lot of that had to do with my enjoyment of things with "purpose"; any sort of adventure that seems to have meaning is endearing to me. Perhaps because I lack that sense of purpose myself. Other than that, the other thought-provoking issue directly related to the movie was the "home" phenomenom. And I guess I'd noticed it too. Home has a sense of "belonging" that is hard to replace. It's not necessarily good or bad, I just feel "grounded" when I'm home. Like there's nowhere else I should be. I can stay here indefinetly without imposing. It's going to be odd losing that. Not as dramatic as the movie made it, but still... different.

At any rate, I also got started on a tangent on reality. I thought my first impression of the movie was so poor because it was "real." And I must say, much of the script was. There were many "awkward silences" that just aren't included in most forms of entertainment because no one likes them. I guess that was the director's intent, to create a "real" feeling despite the somewhat fantastical nature of the characters. Anyway, I started thinking about my inability to stand "reality." I suppose I define reality as boring, undramatic, purposeless; generally existential. Then I started thinking about all of our escapes: movies, TV, books, sports. But are they really escapes or just aspects of a larger reality that includes the imagination? I guess they're escapes from emotion, from the "self" in lieu of reality. But there certainly are a lot out there. Without food, media, or action it's disturbing how little there appears to do that wouldn't qualify as "work." Basically, if you remove escapes, the highlights are work, other people, and love. I'm not particularly sure if that's good or bad. I decry my escapes, saying they dull my mind and emotion, but without them I recall a great deal of angst and purposelessness. Reality seeping in. Oh, it's all too complex.

Wouldn't my journal entries be easier to follow if they simply recounted my day? They certainly wouldn't be as verbose. But there are so many days their individual contents sort of become unimportant. It's the undercurrents that matter. And perhaps I'd rather deal with those. To each their own...

Quick Notes

There's a new poll up. Hopefully it'll be more successful than the last one.

Since school is coming up again, I need to get back on a sleep schedule other than "2:30AM to 10:30AM", so if those (especially a specific person) still online at the lofty hour of 12:30 could start ignoring me or whatever it takes to get me to go to sleep I'd be most grateful. You know who you are...

Heh, have a good second to last day of break everyone!

Communication

Answer to most everything. Especially with the right people.... mmm.

Sad

Tonight I had my longest spell of depression/sadness in months. Perhaps it was because my day was spent mostly at a funeral. Or maybe it's because I didn't escape today(video game) like I've done most every day in December, thus I actually felt the progression of time, including the onset of night. Or maybe it's the new acne medicine that seems to cause depression, birth defects, inability to see in the dark, irritability, dry skin, and probably alien infestation. It's... powerful.

At any rate, it happened. I think you can divide the types of depression into two categories: One focuses on the result of an action, the other focuses on inaction. Depression caused by actions such as breakups, insults, and failures spur on thoughts of worthlessness and suicide. But depression caused by inaction just makes one... sad. They're the kind that I generally associate with the holidays, Friday nights, and the end of breaks from school. Basically, I look back and think, "Wasted... all squandered... There's so much I could do! So much I could see! So many people to meet, art to create, art to enjoy, adventures to be had, life to be lived! And yet, I waste it all at my computer, lost in some faraway, fictional realm where I have some warped sense of power and purpose. It's not real. It's baseless! I'm wasting my life... Look at me! 18 and what have I to show for it? I've done nothing, created nothing, influenced nothing! All my 'art' is either lacking or forgotten. Everyone I've tried to help will just revert back to their same problems. Every person I know will die or forsake me in favor of a new life with new people. And when I die, only distant family members who never called, never wrote, never cared until they finally realized they too had squandered the oppurtunity of my now ended existence. When I die, will I be celebrated? Or will I be literally swept under the carpet, my cremated ashes nothing but a trinket that must be 'revered' that no one really wants? I don't have a Heaven to look forward to. All I have is a flash in the pan, a few brief years before my uneventful demise. So short is this life we have, and it's wasted before we even start..."

Such is my thought process. And it's queer, because the depression spirals into sadness. Not self-pity, not cynicism, but stoic acceptance of an existentialist fate. I have an intense desire, at that moment, to create. I want to create something that emulates this exact moment, this exact feeling because in its tragic masochism, it is itself beautiful. That's what I'm doing right now. I'm trying to capture the feeling, save it for my depression shall subside, and I'll commit the folly of escape once again for I rationalize that that world is no more real than this one can claim to me. The difference is that I know the other is fake. I can only guess at this one. You can argue that knowledge is more important than happiness, but what if you knew our existence was a fraud? Don't you consider it a blessing that the ignorance of our reality is thrust upon us, never to be revealed until it ceases to hold us in its grasp? Those who argue that the knowledge of a situation is superior to a full appreciation for it don't know what this whole game is about. And yet... I see the hypocrisy. I see my earlier self with an intense desire to create, spurred on by a depression that I cling to because it is beauty. The art that I crave is beautiful. But one must consider the price the artist and his work's admirers pay. It's emotional masochism. You sacrifice your happiness, your joy, the goal that every single person should have in order to achieve power. And power corrupts. My favorite example is Mark Twain. All his life was spent in cynicism and creating art. His works are extolled even today as witty, moving, and a part of America's bloodline. Yet his end was consumed in nihilism, existentialism, and misery. He knew too much. He thought too much. He created too much, let the biting questions, the inner doubts we try to hide so deep inside us that their poison can never spread, out into the open and they consumed him. Is that the price one must pay for knowledge? Is his life any better than that of one wasted on fantasy and some form of insubstantial bliss? Many artists are miserable. Poe, O'Neil, every single drunkard and cynic who has written some masterpiece we all cherish all paid the price.

So I'm stuck at an impasse. As I write, I think "I've partially done it, I've partially captured the emotion I wanted. It's verbose, as usual, but if I were reading this I would say 'I want to emulate this.'" And yet, the beauty fades as it is expelled onto "paper." My mood improves, my interest flees, and I find myself... bored. The masochistic urge is past, now that my goal is accomplished. Does it take sadness to appreciate happiness? No, because there are most likely those who read this who think "Self-pitying, angsty teenage fool. Get over it." Are they incomplete? Do they lack an appreciation for joy for they know nothing to the contrary? I don't know. This ought to be my final novel, the ultimate question of which diverging path to take. A creation of art and a nurturing of suffering or an appreciation of life leaving nothing of substance behind. Action versus Inaction. Ah. How like a novel. We've come full circle. Which will it be, indeed. Two paths with the same consequence. Some people can never be happy...